


Some Like It Hot

by unorthodoxCreativity



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: M/M, heat wave, inappropriate office pining, stripper clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:45:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4175220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unorthodoxCreativity/pseuds/unorthodoxCreativity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first day of Roy/Ed Week - Favorite moment/quote or a song that reminds you of Roy/Ed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Like It Hot

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has probably sat in my Google Drive for at least a year, so I figured I'd finally finish it and throw it out there for Roy/Ed week. 
> 
> Some Like It Hot is not exactly a favorite Roy/Ed song of mine but the tone is perfect for the story and it's kind of just hilarious. 
> 
> Very draft-y, so apologies for any typos or glaring mistakes that might turn up. I'm trying to get this posted before the first day is over and that's in about ten minutes sooo. ONWARD.

_Feel the heat pushing you to decide_  
_Feel the heat burning you up, ready or not_

—Power Station, [“Some Like It Hot”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xf2MNCu5oqM)

 

The heat in Central is oppressive, clawing between folds of stiffly-starched military uniforms and lingering there like unwanted advances. Colonel Roy Mustang sits at his desk and wishes his body would melt into a puddle already. It would be better than the awareness of every lick of heat against his skin, the steady stream of sweat pooling on his lower back, sticking the innermost layers of his clothing to him like a second skin. He won't be able to reach them until he peels layers from himself for a shower later, a human onion, pungent and soggy.

"Sir," Hawkeye attempts for the third time in the last ten minutes. "The sooner you finish looking for those reports, the sooner you can return home."

He stares dejectedly at the inch-thick stack of papers sitting in front of him. He'd used the first few as a makeshift fan at the beginning of the day, but the energy exerted from the task was a greater loss than the meager wafts of air it created. Spots of grease from his fingers glare at him from their corners.

"It should be illegal to work in this heat," he gripes, turning his attention to his fountain pen. He doesn't pick it up. Focusing on it is progress enough. "I can't even think past it." A bead of sweat lets go of his hair and drools down the back of his neck. "What temperature is it, anyway?"

Falman's voice rises up from his desk, shimmery and reaching toward cooler air. "102 degrees, sir."

A collective groan spreads out over the office, clinging to the creaky floorboards. Fuery stabs at his glasses with a finger, its bridge sweat-slicked and making its way down his nose for the hundredth time. Collars are undone and hanging limply against slick collarbones, the shuffle of work noise at a lethargic crawl.

In a testament to how little they want to move, nobody jumps when the outer office door slams open and a certain Fullmetal Alchemist stomps in with about as much care as a bull in a china shop.

A certain Fullmetal Alchemist who had apparently deemed clothing to be below him.

Only a pair of light blue boxers hang low on his hips, sticking to the contours of his upper thighs. His feet are shoved into his boots, sockless. The usual braid is replaced with a high ponytail, licking at the skin between his shoulderblades.

“Is there anything I’m doing today, or can I go find a lake to jump into?” he snaps, breaking through everyone’s stupor. Six pairs of envious eyes train themselves on his bare skin.

“Edward,” Roy hears Hawkeye say through the faint ringing in his ears, “that attire is entirely inappropriate for the office.” Ed’s chest and abdomen glisten with sweat, beads trickling slowly down to where skin meets boxers with a slender trail of hair. Roy can’t tear his eyes away.

“It’s over a hundred out there,” Ed argues, “and outside has the benefit of a breeze. I’m surprised you haven’t all baked yet with all the layers you’re wearing.” He sniffs, crossing his arms. His skin slides against itself with a slight squelch. “Besides, all the metal on me would probably set clothing on fire.”

And isn’t that a seering image, the sunshine boy lit like a phoenix, the spatter of freckles across his shoulders jumping like embers. Roy swallows, but it merely burns the path of his throat, coils in his belly waiting to be born again.

“You still have to wear clothes,” Hawkeye says, somewhere outside Roy’s haze of smoke. The rest of the room is still, silent, waiting. Roy is waiting. His eyes are stuck on gleaming golden skin, in his throat a match waiting to light up.

“You’re not even in charge of that,” Ed says, turning. Their eyes lock. He must know, that this sodden outer shell is hiding heat-dry desire inside, that this may be the tinder that finally ignites. “Are you going to make me wear clothes, _Mustang_?” There’s something in his tone, a daring, he _knows—_

And Riza knows, he let it all spill out once over the smooth blanket of alcohol. He feels her glare boring a hole straight through his side, through ribs to his lungs, but he already couldn’t breathe, what’s another gasp of air lost?

He breathes in, a slow waft of oxygen to fan himself back up. “I’m afraid,” he says, and he is, afraid of how much this has hold of him, “that in the office you have to at least put on shorts. Outside the office,” he pauses, thinks of all the places outside the office, the riverwalk, a tucked-away alley, _his bed_ , “you can wear whatever you like.”

Ed scoffs, eyes still snapping against his, “I’m wearing boxers. Those are basically shorts.”

Roy wills himself to hold this contact, to be strong enough not to be blinded by this sun. “They're underwear, which means they're intended to be worn under something.”

The connection breaks, Ed’s eyes trailing skyward as he cards fingers through sweat-clumped bangs. “I don't want to wear layers. What if I wore shorts without boxers?”

Roy's brain stutters. He looks at Hawkeye, for some sense of how to respond. Her face is hidden beneath her hands.

“Edward,” she says, tired, trying her hardest to do this the diplomatic way, “aren’t you more hot without without clothing covering your metal limbs?

The crossed arms are more of a cage than an act of defiance, now, a way for Ed to hide behind himself. “Well yeah, but that doesn't help the rest of me.” For the first time, Roy notices the angry red where metal meets flesh.

“And for God's sake, Edward, put some aloe on that.”

Roy would love to put aloe on it, if only to touch that skin so gently that Ed would shiver beneath his usually-destructive fingertips. To cool rather than burn, to stroke away pain rather than cause it.

Edward leaves, and Roy’s hand twitches after him.

  
  


It has to be David’s handiwork. That perfect fit, the avant-garde silhouette. Damn the man; Ed waltzes around in the construction that absolutely has to have been made _specifically to torment Roy_ , as if he doesn’t even notice.

Over his metal leg is what resembles normal pants, but the right-side stops just below the crotch, half booty-short, half slacks. It should be ridiculous, but it’s not; Ed’s bare thigh glistens, the full-leg snug around his other so you can’t forget they’re twins. The shirt, if you can call it that, is an arm and a shoulder with a strap around the neck to hold it up, covering just the automail and nothing else. The whole thing is made of light cream cotton, and it makes Ed look like a desert god. And lord, the slender red straps riding just above the line of the pants, who knows how skimpy the underwear is.

It is, technically, more clothing than he was wearing when he was in nothing but boxers. That doesn’t make this any easier.

Roy lifts his phone and asks the operator to patch him to David Schneider, ex-state alchemist (known then as Thread) turned military tailor. Roy focuses his attention on the wood of his desk as the phone rings, tapping out a marching cadence with his nails.

He absolutely will not look up until Ed is out of his line of vision.

It’s four long rings before the bastard answers, and Roy can already hear his grin. “Hello, Royboy, new suit? Got a date?” He never should have introduced this man to his mother, even if his tailoring tends to pry loose military secrets.

“I’m not calling you for an appointment,” Roy growls softly. He swallows, ceases tapping his fingernails, shifts the phone receiver to his other ear. “Is Ed your doing?”

“Well, no, I’m not his father.” Cheeky little _shit_.

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t know if I want to claim it,” David hedges. “It’s a prototype, really. Cheap muslin. No lining. Half of it is only basted, you should really teach that boy patience—”

“I’m going to have you murdered,” Roy hisses. He glances up. Hawkeye stands at his desk, stack of paperwork in hand, with that _look_ that never ends in anything pretty. He motions to the phone’s cradle and whisper-mouths, _David_. Her eyebrows go up and she nods slightly as she sets down the stack onto Roy’s already-much-too-high mountain. 

She jabs a finger at the phone and then slits across her throat, a clear message: _tell him he’s dead._

“In fact,” Roy says, “Lieutenant Hawkeye has just volunteered to do the job.”

David sighs dramatically. “Can’t you let me have fun sometimes? I’m sick to death of woolen uniforms.”

Roy holds his hand in a cup over the receiver and his mouth, so the others can’t hope to eavesdrop. “Tiny shorts, David. The _thong_.”

“He wanted to go without, but he needed to wear some kind of underwear, or he’d peek out! You know how he loves his high kicks.”

Roy practically swallows his own tongue. “How did you convince him?”

He’s asking on principle, but David misunderstands. His tone is a teasing raze of fire. “You want advice getting him into lingerie?”

“Fuck, no—”

“Less fabric, so no extra layer. Keeps everything tucked in. I pitched him the logical side.”

Roy pinches the bridge of his nose. “Of course you did.” His eyes rove against his better reasoning. Ed is reaching up for a book on a shelf just outside his reach. On his tip-toes, his muscles pulled taut, the perfect globe of his ass is _just_ contained on the shorts side.

“Your underwear is visible,” Hawkeye states coldly, still the only one brave enough to speak up. Everyone is staring, at this point.

“Huh?” Ed says, finally snatching the book and settling back onto solid ground. He glances at his crotch. “Oh, hmm, maybe I should get red pants.” He looks again at Roy, frozen now to the desk, holding the phone like a life support. He barely hears David’s cackle on the other end. “How sun reflective is the color red?”

“Ah,” Roy says, intelligently.

“I bet red leather would work well, actually.” Ed rubs his chin, eyes drifting into the realm of scientific genius. No longer part of this room.

“Did I overhear leather?” David says, still pressed to Roy’s ear. “I knew I liked that kid.”

“You have to stop this,” Roy chokes as Ed seems to come to a conclusion and rushes back out into the world.

“Au contraire, my dear friend.” Roy hears the pop of knuckles being cracked. “I’m just getting started.”

**Author's Note:**

> Finally rolling out David Schneider as an original character of Michelle/AmariT's and mine, too! As the Thread Alchemist, his alchemy dealt with attaching cords to people's tendons and then using those tendons to basically puppet the person. He was also at Ishval and was extremely traumatized by having to use his alchemy that way. 
> 
> So now he's a regular old tailor who might use his alchemy to help things get sewn faster, and also happens to moonlight on the side as another spy for Christmas's network, since measuring and pinning suits and uniforms takes a long time and people don't think about who they're talking to.
> 
> (Drawing was originally posted here: http://kyrianne.tumblr.com/post/48615167844/since-i-finished-my-math-homework-i-decided-to)


End file.
